


our bones get tangled

by Anniely



Series: we start four-alarm fires [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 'Established' Relationship, Can be read on its own, Continuation of 'to be holy', F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anniely/pseuds/Anniely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is love? (Baby, don't hurt me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	our bones get tangled

'Is this love?' Sam asks one night.

 

She's sitting on her unmade bed, disassembling her gun and putting it back together again in the dark. Magazine in – _click_ – start again.

 

The sound of steady typing, a melody made by fingers on plastic, stills. Root closes her laptop, dipping her face into darkness.

 

'Is what love?'

 

'What we are doing,' Sam says.

 

 _Click_ – start again.

 

She can hear Root laugh from the corner; start again. Sam forces her eyes to remain on the ghostly shadows of her hands.

 

'I believe what we are _doing_ is commonly referred to as _sex_.'

 

Sam groans. 'Forget I asked.'

 

She throws her gun onto the bedside table, which appeared a few months ago and is usually covered in notes and old, dog-eared books, where it lands with a satisfying, metallic _clank_. Then she curls up in the middle of the bed, draping the only pillow she has over her face.

 

It's not that she _wants_ to think about these things (well, maybe she likes to think about sex, every now and then, so what? It's easier to come by than someone to shoot, these days, but unwinds her just the same. And the people she does get to shoot don't usually look this ... off topic; very). She hits her pillow (and herself, in the process).

She doesn't want to think about these things; she was okay with feeling by watching other people feel. But now she's part of this _thing_ (she might be? She's pretty sure she is), that's bigger than herself because it includes someone else and Sam doesn't know where the lines are, between sex and books on the bedside table, between co-workers and you-drank-my-last-beer- _again_ , between hobby and Root.

 

She needs a manual, or alcohol (or maybe an exit strategy).

 

The bed dips, as a shadow sits down by her side. A hand (warm) on her knee stops the spiraling of her thoughts and she breaths out.

 

'Why are you asking?'

 

'I don't know,' Sam answers, but it comes out mostly as _hrmph_ , because she's basically smothering herself with her pillow by now.

 

Carefully, very carefully, Root untangles Sam's fingers from the pillowcase and then takes the pillow, fluffing it up before putting it down.

 

'Why are you asking?' she asks again and she sounds so concerned, almost not like herself, that Sam is very tempted to push her off the bed.

 

She likes angry Root, flirty Root; she didn't want to be the one responsible for concerned (and possibly emotionally compromised) Root. It's bad enough that every time Root gets that faraway look on her face, listening to a voice only she can hear, Sam is torn between wanting to follow her wherever it is that Root goes in those moments, and shaking her, screaming _Don't ignore me (I know she's all-seeing and God-like, but I once shot a man in the arm through a brick wall in the dark!)_.

 

Maybe, she realizes and damn that's a scary thought (let's go with inconvenient thought, because she doesn't get scared) it's not so much the feelings-and-emotions part that worries her, maybe she just doesn't like change.

 

She likes steak and guns and dogs and her job and Root. She really doesn't want to have to rework that list.

 

'If you're going to tell me that you love me, I'm saying if here, not when, and I can't say it back, it means I don't love you back, right?' she says, aware that she doesn't sound like herself very much, either. But she's always been better at kicking ass with her hands tied behind her back than making conversation.

 

'And if this is love, but I don't know it, then you'd have to leave' – me – 'because that's what people do when they're being rejected, don't they?' she continues anyway; it's not so different from fighting with your hands tied. Same principles apply: Duck when necessary, but go for full contact most of the time, taking your opponents out before they manage to surround you or drive you into a corner.

 

Root is quiet for a while.

 

'The first lines of code I ever saw made absolutely no sense to me,' she finally says, 'I didn't know what they meant. But they made me feel safe, somehow; they gave me something to hold on to, even if I didn't understand it. You don't need to be able to tell me that you love me, in order for it to be true. You don't even need to love me the way I love you, in order for it to be real.'

 

_Nerd –_

 

_How very poetic –_

 

– _So you love me?_

 

'But I appreciate that you think I know what love is,' Root says, relieving her of the pressure of having to choose an answer.

 

'What about the Machine?' Sam asks, genuinely curious, the darkness of the room giving her the necessary cover, 'I thought you loved her.'

 

She stretches out, her joints cracking pleasantly; it's like that perfect second after your gun jams, when you remember there's a second one strapped to your ankle.

 

'I used to kill people because I was good at it and I didn't believe that anything we did mattered in any way,' Root says.

 

Her fingers are on Sam's thigh now, typing. Sam's seen her do it plenty of times, long fingers moving relentlessly, typing, typing, like they are chasing after invisible lines of letters and numbers. It drives her mad, sometimes, because it is the antithesis of her; she likes to make her body stop, creating a perfect silence, with no muscle moving, the sound of blood rushing in her ears the only indicator that she's still alive. Then pull a trigger.

But she lets Root type away on her leg, because it feels like the sound of rain on a window; and she can almost hear the words Root's fingertips form.

 

'The Machine showed me that there was structure even to the infinite chaos of the universe. She showed me that I could have meaning; but you can't be in love with a God,' Root continues.

 

Sam turns her head, just catching a light from outside painting a yellow stripe across Root's cheek.

 

'Doesn't that make me second best?' she asks, mock-pouting even though Root can't see it, simply because she can, 'That hurts, Root.'

 

'No,' Root says, 'You'll never be second best to anything.'

 

Sam can deal with compliments like _Nice shot_ , because it's easy to ascertain whether those are honest or not, but with something like this … considering that there are times when she'd sell her kidney for a hamburger or some really good bourbon, she'd say there are things a lot better than her (or at least parts of her).

 

She opts for 'Thanks?'

 

In the apartment next door, something is banged against the wall; outside, the sound of sirens echoes off the building, and in here it's a bit too quiet.

 

'Root?'

 

'It's nothing,' Root says, the warmth of her hand disappearing from Sam's leg. 'I know you don't like to talk about these things.'

 

She's seen Bear do it plenty of times, but she's not sure the same rules apply with humans: She turns her body to the side until her head meets Root's thigh.

 

'I also don't get why I can't just shoot the bad guys,' she mumbles against denim, 'But I do it anyway.'

 

She buts her head against Root's thigh until there's a soft chuckle from above her and a hand in her hair. She's very pleased with herself; and she'll buy Bear the biggest doggy Danish she can find, for being such a great example.

 

'Are you comparing talking to me about your feelings to shooting kneecaps?' Root asks.

 

Sam's only half listening, though, because those long fingers should never do anything but draw random patterns on her scalp.

 

She hums her agreement. 'Both are for the greater good.'

 

'Why, did you want to have sex?' Root deadpans.

 

'Root,' Sam groans. It's not often that she's the more, well not mature, but serious one? No, the more focused one. 'We were having a moment.'

 

Root's fingers movie a bit further down, pushing hair away from Sam's neck.

 

'Not yet. But if you give me eight minutes, that could change.'

 

'I changed my mind, I'm throwing you out and changing the locks.'

 

Sam gropes for the pillow, hitting mostly Root. She finally gives up, half-way sprawled across Root, the pillow trapped between them, Root's arms around her to keep her from falling off the bed (happened once; she almost broke her face).

 

'I didn't say you could stop,' Sam mumbles into the stomach that she finds herself smashed against and Root puts one hand back onto her head, a steady, reassuring weight there, holding her, anchoring her.

 

 

Tomorrow, all the books will be back on that stupid little table and her beer will be gone and she really doesn't know why they can't just share a toothbrush; but she'll buy more beer and shoot more kneecaps and maybe that's love and maybe it's not.

 

But it (definitely) doesn't matter, because this is hers and it's _good_ ; and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I just felt like 'to be holy' deserved a continuation.
> 
> Any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
